


What the Devil hears

by Gutter_Couch



Series: behind me, beneath me, beside me [5]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, BDSM and vigilantism do not mix with happy results, Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Matt desperately wanting to be good for Foggy, Other, Parkour, Rooftop masturbation, Semi-Public Sex, Vigilantism, consensual voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27099736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gutter_Couch/pseuds/Gutter_Couch
Summary: A Daredevil emergency interrupts Foggy domming Matt, leading to Matt scrambling across rainy rooftops in a daze of coming up out of submission too abruptly. Meanwhile, Karen wears out bedsprings while calling for the Devil to be good.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Series: behind me, beneath me, beside me [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1977175
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	What the Devil hears

Night has deepened. Rain is falling, soft and steady.

Foggy, naked, is sitting on the hardwood floor with his back to the couch. Matt, naked and broken, is sitting in Foggy's lap, turned to the side. Foggy had pinched Matt's already spent, tingling, tired dick to his own girth with his thumbs and had forced Matt to fold and crumple his body, open his mouth, and swallow down Foggy's improbably large dick.

Matt's mouth is slung open. He's breathing through his mouth, slow and shallow. His nose is running slightly.

Both of them are covered in salty sweat, slimy, cooling cum, and Matt's saliva, which is still dripping down his jaw. He wants to swallow, but his throat is so, so sore. It's coated with himself, with Foggy, all down the inside. He can feel them there. What was once inside them both, separately, now mingled and sliding down his throat.

There is a faint, broad red ring around Matt's neck where Foggy had so lovingly placed his broad hands and squeezed, permitting Matt to breathe only when he cried for Foggy, only when he begged with a thin, reedy whine. 

Matt had been so good for Foggy. And, Foggy, too, had gotten his reward, though a bit more forcefully than expected. 

The muscles of Matt's lower back, already purple and black from fighting as Daredevil, are sore deep down from folding his body under Foggy's pressure, from bending to Foggy's will and sucking, dutifully, like the very good pet he always wants to be.

Matt listens to the rain outside the window, and to Foggy's heart beating right under his ear. Everything is unfocused, too distant or too close, so Matt latches onto everything that is Foggy. The chaffing of the skin of his ass, the burning of his muscles, the rawness of his throat... it's all present, a reminder of how he's been used, but it's also soft, soft like the world tells him the hurt shouldn't be. 

The hurt is good, for Matt. He feels it and it tells him that he is Foggy's. 

Foggy holds him. Foggy's breathing becomes deeper, and Matt finds himself slipping down as well, matching Foggy, breathing slow with Foggy's slow breath, idly tracing his finger in the sticky, mingled liquids on his smooth belly. Matt enjoys the feel of this slide under his fingers. He enjoys the smell, that smell that makes him insatiably hungry for more and makes him feel safe and cared for. He's drowsy, and he strokes his tummy idly, drool flowing down his slack jaw to mix and warm the liquids under his fingers, to mix with the sound and the smell of rain, a steady rhythm through the canyons of the buildings around them, softening the echo of footsteps, of vehicles, of--

Of--

Matt closes his eyes for a second, and starts to cry.

Without opening his eyes, he shuts his mouth, reaches with his hand and squeezes Foggy's shoulder.

Foggy tilts his head up, woozy. Reflexively, Foggy encircles Matt's body in his arms to pull him tighter, closer. Matt's tears fall, and he squeezes again. "Fffo--" he tries.

"Hmm...?" Foggy smiles down at Matt in his arms, the softest smile of half-asleep and wholly in love.

"Ffffggy."

"Yes, dear?"

Matt groans, pushes outward on Foggy's arms. He shifts and fumbles.

"Matty?" Foggy asks, suddenly more awake. 

Matt winces as he swallows a mouthful of drool down his tight throat. "Gotta, gotta go," he stutters. He flops a limp arm outward, gesturing awkwardly to the rain-streaked window.

Foggy's heart is suddenly thudding in his chest but rhythm is not enough to drown out what Matt's hearing.

The sound of Foggy's heart can be enough, sometimes. But, in the end, Matt has burdens that Foggy can only support, rather that lift entirely from his shoulders. 

Matt tumbles forward out of Foggy's lap, wincing as his knees hit the floor. "There's--" he gasps lightly. "--I have to go."

Foggy reaches a hand forward. Matt shakes his head: no. Matt's throat is burning. His jaw is stiff. His skin is crusted with three kinds of sticky, tacky filth. It hurts to talk. But, out there, someone else will soon be hurting more. He can fold down this pain. He has to.

Matt begins to stand on shaky legs. "Unn..." he rasps, clutching his lower back with bruised knuckles. 

Foggy curses under his breath and pulls himself to half-standing, half-leaning on the couch. He tosses a glance at the cabinet where Matt keeps his suit and then turns back to Matt. "Tell me you're okay to go out there," Foggy says softly, "and I'll believe you."

Matt opens his eyes, pulls himself upright. He works his jaw back and forth. He opens his mouth "I--" but it's hoarse. He winces, shuts his mouth, nods.

Foggy steps forward, reaches his hands up to Matt. One hand frames Matt's cheek, the other rests lightly on Matt's voicebox, stroking the blooming bruise with his thumb. Matt wipes the tears from his eyes, inhales sharply through his nose.

"Are you okay to go out, Matt?"

Matt shakes out his aching joints and nods again.

"Really?"

Matt allows himself a pause. He reaches up and places a hand over Foggy's hand on his throat. He squeezes once.

"M'kay" he rasps, low and scratchy. 

Foggy feels the dip of the voicebox under his fingertips and then he drops that hand and pats Matt's cheek with the other. "Okay, but we should probably get that anal plug out first."

Matt rocks his weight to the balls of his feet, flexes his thighs to clench down around the plug. It shifts inside him, a warm and pleasant weight. He stretches around his toy, feels it move in response the pulses of his muscles. Then his head snaps up as the sound of the struggle slams into his ears through the window from three blocks away.

He drops into a fighting stance without thinking. "Fogs," growls the Devil. 

Then Matt coughs, feeling spittle and his cum mixed with Foggy's itching his throat. Foggy grabs Matt by the elbows. Matt begins to turn away, pushing toward the cabinet, toward his suit, toward the thing that he can do to help, the thing that only he can do. 

"No time," he rasps.

Foggy clamps down on Matt's shoulders. "Matty," his voice is stern, low and iron and steel and adamantium. It rings with authority. There is care, infinite care, in his voice but absolutely no softness. "You are hurt. I pushed you too far tonight."

Matt shakes his head, impatient. He pulls in a half-hearted effort to shrug out of Foggy's hold. 

"I know you liked it in the end, but I forced your body without stopping to check in on you, I--" Foggy swallows. "We'll talk about how I made a bad call later, when someone isn't in trouble."

" 'm going," Matt says, reaching up and lifting Foggy's hands from his shoulders. He squeezes Foggy's wrists and says, "You didn't hurt me."  
His voice is so scratchy it might betray the lie.

Foggy drops his hands to his sides, takes a step back, and says, " _No_."

Matt hesitates.

"I forbid it. Remove the plug, or stay here."

Matt's knees shiver. He wants to fall to the floor. He wants to apologize. He's being bad. He's being bad, he's disobeying the voice that he should never disobey. Foggy only forbids things because he cares for Matt. He's keeping Matt safe, so Matt isn't damaged. He's Foggy's Matty. He's Foggy's good boy so he has to--

Matt trembles, falling to the floor on one knee. "Foggy," he chokes, coughing again.

Foggy places a hand in Matt's hair, squeezes once.

"Fogs, I have to. Please, please, let me go."

Foggy looks out the window, petting Matt's head. It's never fully dark in New York City but, somehow, Hell's Kitchen looks like a place without a light to warm your bones.

Foggy closes his eyes, almost crying himself as Matt begs at his feet. Matt is red and purple, black and blue and, in places, greenish yellow.

"It's urgent?" Foggy whispers, already knowing the answer.

Matt nods vigorously, scrambling to clasp Foggy's hands.

Foggy sends up a prayer to Matt's God, and nods, once. "Go now, as quick as you can."

Matt nods, jumps to his feet. He wants to kiss Foggy his thanks, to praise Foggy for understanding, for being the only one who understands. But there's no time.

"But," Foggy says as Matt's hand touches the door of the cabinet. Matt doesn't pause in retrieving his gear, but he turns his head to the side so Foggy knows he's listening.

"You don't intervene unless you absolutely have to."

"I never do," Matt grumbles with broken voice, removing the neck tie and pulling out the red and black suit.

"No, this time, Matt, you're sticking to the roof. You scare them off, and then you come back to me."

Matt shakes out the legs and the arms of his suit, slips them over himself like a shell. He pulls out his helmet, turns it over in his hands once, then turns to Foggy. "You know I can't promise that," he whispers.

Foggy nods. "I know. But you can promise me you'll try."

Matt gives him a curt nod. "I will." Then, his red and sticky lips curl up into the slightest bit of a grin. "I'll be good."

Matt pulls on the helmet and strides over to and up the stairs to the roof.

"You're good for me as Matty," says Foggy, watching him go, "But sometimes you've got the Devil in you. I'm not sure he plays as nice."

As Daredevil opens the door to the apartment, he turns, cocking his head toward Foggy. His voice is now the Devil's voice, but he says, "The Devil loves just as much as the man." And then he's gone.

Foggy sighs, hugging himself for a moment, and then sets about cleaning up.

Parkour with a five inch plug of silicone up your ass is... it's not ideal. 

But Matt has experience and he is highly motivated. His brain splits his attention, tuning out the chill, searching out safe ledges to grab, adjusting his grip for the rain-wet surfaces, zeroing in on the sounds of the fight, and always, always, at the core of himself monitoring Foggy. He knows he's not in the best shape, still rising up out of that deep, submission state that Foggy sends him into. But people might need his help and Foggy understands that. So he's allowed to go and to help.

The base of the plug is flared wide, but his reinforced leather outfit is form-fitting, stretching when he leaps, when he crouches. It applies uneven pressure on the toy and occasionally he grunts at the way his insides shift to accommodate the jostle and the push of the toy.

The disturbance he's heading toward is a street brawl: a dozen or so thugs by the sound of it. Quite a few are were injured during the first round of squabbling but right now they've taken a step back to regroup and are mostly intimidating each other, waving guns and baseball bats and pipes. He hears the click of chains, smells ammunition and weed and a very large amount of cash money. 

The men - it's all men so far as he can detect - are threatening each other. The threats aren't particularly creative and, his brain notes, they're so involved with their posturing that they're starting to let slip vital information, information the Devil can tuck away and remember for who to... visit next. 

The dispute is complex because the territories involved are unstable but, really, there are only so many family lineages to question, only so many body parts to threaten to emasculate. That's not what Matt needs to monitor as he runs and jumps, reaches and stretches with burning muscles, and tries to ignore the push of the plug in the tight of his leather suit despite the pleasure it sparks even now. The insistent push and rub inside his body coaxes his brain to be more pliant, less sharp. Matt is normally grateful for the distraction of a full ass, but now he grits his teeth and tries to sequester his needy sub brain.

He's tuning into heartbeats, into the quiver of the voice that just insulted that man's dog. The tensions are rising. They're in the alley below. 

He plots his trajectory. He promised Foggy he wouldn't intervene bodily unless he had to and he intends to be good for Foggy -- as good as the Devil will let him be -- but there's information to be gleaned here that might save lives. The whole situation is a powderkeg, despite the rain.

There's a fire escape conveniently below. He'll drop down on silent feet, ready to take on either side if need be. His muscles are bruised and sore and Foggy had put him in that tired, muslin-wrapped place. And yet the fraction of his mind that takes the combined messages of his senses and uses them to map out space and plan his movements is, unlike most of the rest of him, focused. 

He's confident that he can handle this and he'd normally be right but it's raining and he has a butt plug in.

The Devil leaps, a dark shadow suspended in a dark sky, and lands on soft feet on the cold metal of the fire escape. The cold, wet metal. He bends his knees deeply to absorb the shock but his footing slips just a fraction. The deep bend of his knees dips deeper, pulling the material of his suit across his ass in a drag. The seam is settled against the plug and then jerked taught. It pushes up and in sharply.

Matt's asshole puckers tight, tingly with the remembered pinches of Foggy's fingers, the push and pull of his favorite bead wand. The seam catches on the scratches from the loofa, pulled relentlessly taut. The combined sensations push through the Devil's normally iron-willed control over his body. His ass spasms, clenches in a ripple, clamping down and then opening to suck on the toy as it pushes so hard into him. He inhales at the warmth flush of his guts, unconsciously eager to accept the toy.

He inhales the night air, and then he coughs.

The various gang members below, despite their questionable hygiene, multiple bruises, and general sour demeanor, are all in the best of respiratory health. Their heads whip back and forth, searching for the sound.

Matt swallows, trying to get the cough under control. He can feel the mucus coating his throat sloughing off and he wishes he'd asked Foggy to get him some water. Foggy normally has water ready. 

Foggy's so good for him, he thinks, and now he's going to get shot, or have to jump into the fight, all because he couldn't swallow a little cum. A lot of cum.

One of the thugs shouts, "OH, SHIT!" and takes off running. 

The others of his group watch him leave.

"Yo, what the fuck, Robert?"

The rivals have their weapons at the ready until another one of them spots the Devil, trembling and gasping and trying not to cough again.

"Devil!" shouts the teenager. Matt notes, bewildered, that the teen's got a thick southern accent. "There! Devil!"

All heads snap up to snap the rooftops. Matt's finally got his coughing fit under control, which is for the better, because his twitching gut muscles were playing with the toy in ways he doesn't have time to pay attention to. 

Very, very carefully, he unbends his knees. Hopefully his hunched posture is intimidating because the way it relaxes the leather over his ass cheeks allows the base of the plug to push out, just a little, and if tonight there begins a new rumor that the Devil's grown a tail... well, the thugs are running away too quickly to verify with a second glance.

The southerner is frozen in place, still gaping and pointing. The rest of both gangs have scrambled away down the separate ends of the alley. One thug shouts at the southerner before ducking away: "Becky-Josh! You better move, man!"

Becky-Josh lifts his rifle, because apparently southern boys know to carry a rifle even in the city. "Lucky me," he whispers, "Always wanted to bag me a Devil." 

Daredevil in peak form could easily leap down and incapacitate a single teenager, even with a gun in play. But he's trembling and it's raining and Matt promised Foggy he wouldn't get into a fight if he didn't have to.

Matt hears Foggy's stern command in his head. He yearns to obey, to be good. He nods slightly to himself. Then, in a sudden jerk, he grabs the railing and shouts, shaking and rattling the metal. "Raaaah!" 

Becky-Josh startles for a second. In that second, the Devil disappears into the dark and the rain.

Matt tumbles onto the rooftop, panting. He feels a swell of guilt: that was too close. No one was seriously hurt, but that's not what he focuses on. His mind is running with the thought of hurting Foggy by getting himself damaged. He almost disobeyed. He almost got shot. All because he didn't do as Foggy said.

Foggy was right. Foggy would take care of Matt, if only Matt would listen. Foggy knew how to take care of Matt. 

Matt lays on his back on the gravel of the roof, panting. He frowns at himself, then reaches for the clasps and zippers at his waist.

He'll take out the plug and go straight home to Foggy. He'll get on his knees and he'll apologize. He'll-- he'll throw away the plug! Burn it. 

He'll never disobey Foggy again. 

He hopes Foggy will take him back. He'll plead and plead. He'll do everything Foggy says. 

He'll be so so so so good and Foggy will have to take him back.

Fumbling in the wet, he slips the leather of his pants down his hips a few inches and reaches his hand between his legs, past his sore and chafed dick to scramble to pull the plug. He wants to rip it out and nearly does, but he knows Foggy wouldn't want him to. And he's going to be good.

So he spreads his legs wider, pants pushed down more. He shifts to push his arm farther back, wraps his fingers around the silicone, and steadies his breathing. He relaxes his muscles: his shoulders, his legs, his hips, his knees, his thighs and his calves. His lower back twitches but he urges it to steady.

He breathes in. And, on his exhale, he pulls on the plug.

It slides out of him, slow, gradual. He hears it: the slide, the wetness. It's not just rain; it's lube and sweat. The taste reminds him of all the ways Foggy is good to him, takes care of him. "Ffffgy" he whimpers, throat raw and crusty.

He pulls and the plug is in his hand, warm and heavy. He lets go, letting it settle in the slung-open crotch of his suit.

And that's when he hears it.

When he's letting himself relax and reach out to find Foggy and remind himself that he's done well, that's he's going home to Foggy, he hears the voice he loves best.

"Matty, I know you're being good for me," Foggy's whisper carries in the night air, a caress only for Matt's ear. "I'm worried, Matty, but I know you'll be good."

Matt whimpers. He is. He is being good and Foggy knew he was.

He loves Foggy so much.

"Thank you," Matt whispers.

"Thank you," Foggy echoes.

Matt lies on his back, in the rain. The city around him sounds... not safe, not calm, but steady. It's a rhythm he knows, a rhythm he loves. He lives and breathes it.

Foggy pulses warm in the distance, the note in the mix of sensation that grounds him, the note that rings true and strong, the voice that tells Matt to be true and strong as well, to be good. Foggy's is the voice and the heart beat and the breath that says, "Thank you, my very best one, my darling."

There's another voice in the city that filters through the rain and pulse of a million lives. As Matt lays back, it comes to him because it's saying his name. Normally, his ears would prick up from a desperate call for the Devil but this is a throaty moan. 

"Matt, Foggy, fuck,"

The strain of sheets.

"Uhhnn..."

Matt's ears lock onto the sounds of panting. Karen hadn't forgotten about the phone call from the taxi, it seems, or any of the other stories she's heard.

Matt sits up, hastens to hitch his pants back up. The plug... is a problem. The suit doesn't have pockets for something this size. 

Strictly speaking, Matt doesn't need to listen in on Karen. He could tune out, go home to his Foggy, beg for forgiveness like he planned. 

Matt shifts the plug in his hand, hikes up his pants. He sets the length of the plug along his dick, trying to tuck it into the protective sports cup he wears. There isn't enough space. He fumbles in the rain.

Karen's heart rate is fast, thready, but not out of fear. She echoes many subtle and not-so-subtle cues of arousal.

Matt shakes his head, blinks sweat out of his eyes under his mask, and pulls his pants down just a bit. He gets on his hands and knees, feels the gravel dig into his palms. The roof is cold and hard under his knees and toes. Karen is moaning as he reaches back and presses the plug to his asshole.

It dips in, pulling at the skin rather than parting it. Matt inhales deeply, exhales, pushes in a bit more. But it's folding him in on himself, dragging, catching. He shifts. It's... uncomfortable.

He knows once the toy is in he'll have no trouble.

Karen moans louder. Matt hears it like she's right next to him. "So wet..." she says, low and throaty, and then the rub of cloth is faster. 

Matt takes the plug away from himself and brings it to his lips. He swallows, rubbing his tongue along his lower teeth, his upper teeth, the roof of his mouth. He decides to listen in on Karen.

He hears the fingers of each of her hands curling into sheets and his mouth begins to moisten. Matt parts his lips, tendons and ligaments twitching in his jaw. He remembers himself in his mouth, he remembers Foggy thrusting into his mouth, and he begins to suck on the toy.

He passes his tongue over it in broad swathes. Karen pushes her hips down into the bed. The mattress creaks from the effort of her thrust. Matt pushes the toy into his mouth in time, then he rolls it.

"Uhnn, Uhnnn," Karen begins panting, pushing into the bed. Matt pulls his lips tight, tugs the toy out of his mouth, and reaches it back down between his legs. His free hand feels cold through his gloves, wet and on bumpy, rocky ground.

Just before he sets the plug, now wet, to his ass once more, Karen flops forward onto her face. The bed creaks. She inhales a deep gasp and says, "Dammit, Devilboy. If you can hear me... just... if you can hear, you better be a good boy for Foggy."

Matt whimpers. He needs to get back to Foggy. He pushes the tip of the plug into his ass, sliding with steady, lovely pressure. It feels wonderful.

He pushes a bit deeper. He wants to be good but he hears Karen roll aside, crunch up the blankets and place them between her legs. "So fucking good," she whispers, patting and pulling at the fabric, tucking it just so before beginning to rut again. "Perfect pet, Matthew. Do everything Foggy says, you just take it." She pumps her hips. The bed creaks. Matt pushes on his toy.

And then he shakes his head, sobs, and pulls it out again. 

He can't. Foggy said it would be bad to run the roofs with the toy. The toy almost got him shot.

He has to be good, do as Foggy wishes.

Karen thrusts. Matt hesitates.

Karen thrusts harder. The bed is rocking and thumping. It's starting to thud against the wall, right at the headboard.

"Take it," she breathes. "Take it so good."

Karen's strokes are firm and long and steady. She's driving, determined. She knows Matt can take the abuse. She wants to abuse that ass, that asshole, and she's heard he'll take it.

Matt sits up, reaches his hand into the tiny compartment at his chest and pulls out the world's most ancient cell phone.

Foggy picks up on the first ring. He doesn't say anything, just waits, but Matt can hear his breathing.

"Foggy," Matt whines. "Foggy, I was good but I wasn't good enough and I should have listened to you about the plug, it-- and Karen and--"

"Matt," Foggy says, stern, "Matt, breathe."

Matt takes a big gasp of air. Karen's breathing is becoming shallower, faster. The bed is slamming into the wall.

"Tell me, are you hurt?"

"No, Foggy," Matt says immediately. He's slipping down at just that one response.

"You said Karen. Is she okay?"

Karen's breath is now a forceful grunt on each down stroke into the bed. "Yesss," she hisses, "take it."

Matt swallows, reaches his free hand to touch where Foggy had throttled his throat. "Karen's fine, Foggy, she's, uh--"

"Tell me," Foggy says, voice steady.

"She's, uh... she's masturbating and she knows I can hear her and I really really really want to come home to you right now."

Karen is pumping into the sheet between her legs. The bed is thumping.

Foggy puts his hand to his face and wonders when this became his life. "If Karen wants you to listen, I guess you can. But don't try to navigate home at the same time."

"Want you," Matt whines.

"Baby, I know you do. I want to take care of you."

"Can't come home with the plug in, but I want you."

"Fuuuuuuuuck," Karen shouts. Her movements become more erratic. The rhythm of the springs and the thumps becomes uneven but strong as her thighs tighten.

"Matty, I want you to stay there, and listen to Karen. I want you to make sure she's okay. Then, you will come straight home to me."

Matt nods. "Yes, Foggy. I'll be good."

 _Thud, creak, thud,_ goes Karen's bed. Her throat hurts from whining.

"You are good, I know you're good," Foggy is saying.

"Want it, Foggy."

"Want what, pet?"

"Want the plug."

"You took the plug out?"

_Thud._

__

__

Creak.

Thud.

_Creak._

"You wanted it out, before. I was good. I want to be good, Foggy."

"Is Karen close?" Foggy asks.

Karen is very, very close. Matt can taste her sweat from here. He hears the tears in her eyes, scrunched shut, as she pants and thrusts -- _thud thud thud_ \-- into the bed.

"Close," Matt says. 

"Okay," says Foggy, "put your toy back in. I don't want you to feel empty."

Matt nods and almost drops the phone. He slams the anal plug up into his ass. He presses wide and deep, ramming it home. He gives the plug one sharp twist and then begins pumping in time with Karen.

_thud  
thud  
thud  
thud thud thud_

Karen's crying.

And moaning. 

_thud thud thud_  
thud thud thud  
THUD THUD THUD

"YESSSSSSS!" Karen shouts, and collapses into the bed, spasming.

Matt hears her. He smells her. He tastes her.

He says, "Please, Foggy?"

Foggy sighs and says, "Yes, come for me. Come for me now."

Matt is good for Foggy and, pressing the toy deep into himself and hearing Foggy's voice in his ear and Karen's laboring breathing, he somehow manages to come once again, on a rooftop, in the rain.


End file.
